


Texts from Last Night

by sherlockislovely



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drunk John Watson, Fluffy Ending, M/M, Pining, Pre-Relationship, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-02
Updated: 2017-11-02
Packaged: 2019-01-28 13:46:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12607960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sherlockislovely/pseuds/sherlockislovely
Summary: In hindsight, he shouldn’t have tried to outdrink the Yard’s homicide squad. But hindsight isn’t all that valuable after nine shots of tequila, and now he’s outside 221B, throwing rocks at Sherlock’s window.





	Texts from Last Night

**Author's Note:**

> This isn't set at any particular time, but John still has his own place outside of Baker Street. Un-beta'd, so feel free to point out any wonky grammar!

Texts from Last Night

John chased the last shot with a beer, a combination that he would regret when he woke up the next day with a soaring headache and a rising stomach. The glass slammed down messily on the bar, the empty glass tipping over as John disregarded it. He pushed away from the bar, steadying himself momentarily before nodding and taking in a deep breath. A hand clapped his shoulder and nearly tipped him over.

“John!” Lestrade exclaimed, a beer sloshing in his hand, threatening to fall over the edges of the glass. “Ready for another?” he asked, raising a hand to call over the bartender. John groaned, shaking his head.

“No, no, no. I’m ‘fraid I’ve reached my tol’rance, inspector.” His words slurred slightly as his mind focused in and out.

“Smart,” Lestrade said, waving a finger very near John’s face, “know your limits.” He patted John on the head and ruffled his hair, making the man feel like a particularly cuddly golden retriever. John frowned slightly and batted the hand away. Lestrade nodded, seeming to not even notice what he had done. “You going home then?”

“If I can find a cab,” John replied.

Eventually, he hailed a cab outside the pub and found himself settled comfortably in the backseat, rummaging in his pockets for his phone. The driver looked at him from the rearview mirror.

“Where to?”

“Uh, Knightsbridge.” John replied distractedly. His eyes were training hard on his phone, willing the screen to stop being blurry. He clicked on a notification, bringing up several unread messages.

_Incoming - 11:08 p.m.  
I suspect the schoolteacher. Need more data. -SH_

_Incoming - 11:32 p.m.  
Correct about the schoolteacher. Lestrade not answering. Going in alone. -SH_

_Incoming - 12:04 a.m.  
Schoolteacher in custody. London’s finest not helpful. -SH_

_Incoming - 12:13 a.m.  
No new cases. Bored. -SH_

_Incoming - 12:24 a.m.  
Assume you’ve gone to sleep. Goodnight, John. -SH_

John looked up and leaned forward, closer to the cabbie.

“Baker Street, actually.” John said. The cabbie nodded and changed course, turning down a street to the left. The sudden shift in direction make John’s stomach turn and he steadied himself with a long inhale.

It wasn’t long before he reached 221B Baker Street, tossing a tip at the cabbie and stepping out into the chilly night air. The street was practically silent, the only sound the distant sirens from busier areas of the city. John stared at the black door for a few moments before glancing up at the window above. No lights on.  He searched the ground, laying eyes on a pebble near his feet.

In hindsight, he shouldn’t have tried to outdrink Lestrade and the rest of the homicide squad. In hindsight, he should’ve just gone home, drank a very large glass of water, and gone to sleep. John didn’t give a damn about hindsight.

A pebble hit the window. Then another.

“Sherlock!” John yelled, his tone hushed but still loud enough. He threw another pebble. After a minute, his phone vibrated in his pocket and he pulled it out, opening the new notification.

_Incoming - 12:49 a.m.  
Are you throwing rocks at the window? -SH_

_Incoming - 12:50 a.m.  
It’s late. You should be at home. -SH_

John had already composed a response when Sherlock’s face appeared through the glass, his hair more disheveled than usual, curls sticking up in every direction. A smile spread on John’s face and he waved his hand in the air, the unsent message forgotten.

“You’re awake!” John practically sang as the window opened, Sherlock leaning on the sill.

“So it would seem,” Sherlock replied, wrapping his dressing gown further around himself. “I see you’ve indulged yourself tonight.”

“Lestrade. Drinking games. Many… many shots of tequila.”

“And now you’re here.” Sherlock stated, a questioning tone in his voice. John shrugged.

“I missed you.” He smiled up at Sherlock. Sherlock blinked vacantly, something in his throat making it hard to swallow. John frowned as the man disappeared from the window. A few seconds later, however, he could hear footsteps coming down the stairs of 221B, the deadbolt sliding inside the mechanism, and the door opening inward. John beamed. Sherlock only looked at the shorter man before turning back up the stairs, leaving the door open behind him.

A hand caught his as he reached the third step, causing him to fall backward slightly.

“Oh, sorry.” John said, his hand clasped tightly around the detective’s. Sherlock looked down at their hands intertwined, heat rising in his cheeks momentarily before he pushed it away.

“John…” he whispered. He couldn’t think of a time his voice had sounded so unsure. John frowned.

“Sherlock? You okay?” he asked. Sherlock removed his hand from John’s grip and started back up the stairs, not responding. John followed behind, having to steady himself every other step.

“It’s nice.” John whispered as they reached the flat, causing Sherlock to raise an eyebrow.

“What’s that, John?” He asked, turning around. John’s eyes quickly came up to Sherlock’s, a shocked expression on his face.

“Did I say that out loud?” John asked, tilting his head quizzically. He giggled to himself, falling over slightly in the process. Sherlock was there, suddenly, propping him up with his slender arms. Next thing John knew, he was on the couch, being covered with an incredibly soft blanket. He looked up to see Sherlock’s face near his own, the detective knelt beside him on the floor. John wrinkled his eyebrows, studying the man.

“Ridicil- Ridico- Ridiculous.” John finished after a short struggle. Sherlock frowned. Was he calling him ridiculous? Is that what John thought of him? Before he could finish any other thoughts, Sherlock felt two warm hands press against either side of his face. John looked overly concentrated, moving Sherlock’s head back and forth in his grip. “Ridiculous.” He whispered again.

“What?” Sherlock asked, his breath catching as he realized how close they were. He could feel John’s breath on his chin and could smell the alcohol on his breath. John dropped his hands and rolled onto his back, closing his eyes slightly.

“Cheekbones.” He mumbled, his breathing steadying as he drifted out of consciousness. Sherlock’s mouth tweaked, and he placed a hand on John’s forehead, running his hands lightly through the grey hair. John roused slightly but did not awaken.

Sherlock sat down on the floor, watching John’s chest rise and fall. He noticed John’s phone still open to an unsent message and he reached forward to lock the device. He tilted his head as he read it, then pressed send, deleting the reply from John’s phone. Sherlock’s mobile lit up, indicating a new message had arrived. He dismissed the message then locked the phone, a smile tugging at his lips.

_Outgoing - 12:50 a.m.  
It’s late. You should be at home. -SH_

_Incoming - 1:13 a.m.  
I am. -JW_

 


End file.
